


One of those days

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is having a bad day. Luckily, Bellamy has a big heart and a cozy coffee shop and the best hot chocolate in town. </p>
<p>aka I finally gave in and did a coffee shop AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of those days

_Aching, caught in a hurricane_

_It’s taking every muscle to move again_

_Sleepless nights, lazy Sundays_

_Heavy eyes, it’s a case of the Mondays_

 

There’s no denying that Clarke Griffin is having a horrible day. It’s Monday, no one’s favourite day in the first place, but this one has been so much worse than even the worst kind of Monday. It’s not enough that she had another lecture from her Mom yesterday about choosing a “more challenging” field to specialize in after her surgical inernship ends, and that Finn came by again last night to convince her to forgive him and kept her up late even though her shift today started early. No, on top of already being annoyed and tired when she came in this morning, she lost a patient. Having someone die on the table is not a rare occurrence in trauma surgery, and while she usually has her means of dealing with it, today’s patient was a young girl, no older than fourteen, who came in with severe internal injuries from a car crash. Clarke and her team operated on her for hours, but in the end, the girl didn’t make it.

And now that she’s finally done with her shift and longing to just fall into bed and sleep through the rest of this pathetic day, she missed the bus from the hospital to the train station and has to make the fifteen-minute-trip on foot. In the rain, because  _of course_  it is raining, no, pouring, on a day like this, and of course she forgot her umbrella in the locker room. She’s not even halfway to the station  and she’s already drenched to the bone. And there is not one opportunity for shelter in sight – the area is predominantly residential, and the few cafés and small shops have already closed for the day.

A light from the coffee shop across the street gives her momentary hope, but when she’s finally made it there, dodging cars on their way home and getting even more soaked when they splash through the puddles, she finds that the place is closed too, chairs put up on the tables and the counter and coffeemaker gleaming freshly cleaned. She still rattles the door handle, desperate for shelter – maybe there’s someone still in there who will take pity on her and let her stand in a warm, dry place for at least a few minutes. But the doors are firmly locked, and at that moment, the light inside is turned off too.

Frustrated, Clarke blindly kicks out at the metal trashcan standing by the door. The resulting dull clanging sound is oddly satisfying, as is the shock the impact sends up her leg, so she repeats the motion as all the stress and anger and annoyance of the last twenty-four hours finally bubble over: Her Mom’s worried expression, like she’s throwing away her life by choosing to stay a lowly trauma surgeon instead of going into cardiothoracic surgery or something equally prestigious. Finn’s endlessly repeated emtpy apologies and even emptier promises. And again and again the face of the girl who died under her hands today.

She absolutely does not want to think about any of this anymore, so she keeps on attacking the poor innocent trashcan, too tired and upset to care how deranged she must look. But just as she has figured out how to best hit the can so as to maximize the satisfying clanging noise without really hurting her foot, the door to the coffee shop bangs open and a tall, dark-haired man storms out with an expression on his face that screams bloody murder.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Stop kicking my trashcan!”

Clarke freezes in mid-movement, one leg outstretched in the air, only to almost lose her balance and topple over, which only makes her even more irritated.

“Well, what else am I supposed to kick?” It is an incredibly stupid question, of course, but Clarke is still angry and now that she didn’t get to finish venting, the tears she has been trying to hold back fight their way to the surface once more. She blinks them away determinedly, trying to ignore the suspicious stare the man is sending in her direction.

“Are you drunk?”

“Absolutely not.” God, she wishes she was. To be fair, she can see where he’d get that impression – not only does she probably look like a drowned rat, but exhaustion is also making her sway on her feet. Well, that, and she just kicked the shit out of his trashcan.

But then something strange happens: Instead of debating her state of sobriety or yelling at her some more about his trashcan, the man in the doorway just looks at her,  _really_   _looks_ ,  although he probably can’t see that much in the dim evening twilight. But the longer he silently studies her, the more Clarke realizes that nobody has taken the time do to this in those entire disastrous last twenty-four hours – not her Mom, not Finn, and certainly no one at the hospital.

“Are you okay?”

It hits her like a punch to the gut, the combined force of his intent gaze and his obvious concern, and she feels an unchecked tear rolling down her cheek.

“No. I’m really not.”

Wordlessly, the man steps back inside, holding open the door for her.

“Come on in, I’ll get you something hot to drink.“ Clarke does not immediately follow the invitation, too busy just gawping at him for a moment. She can’t quite believe that this man, who looks and sounds like a natural grump, is offering her food and shelter instead of calling the police about her act of vandalism. She can feel her throat tighten at the thought of being lucky enough to meet someone so incredibly kind, and suddenly wishes he’d go back to yelling so she won’t dissolve into a blubbering puddle at his feet.

“Don’t even try to tell me you don’t need a hot drink. You look like shit.”

Well, at least she doesn’t have to be afraid that he’ll coddle her, Clarke thinks wryly, her tears finally subseding for good as she pushes past him into the invitingly warm and deliciously coffee-scented room.

She doesn’t get further than a few steps into the room before she is stopped by a hand on her arm.

“At least take off your wet coat so I don’t have to wipe the whole floor again later.” Yep, definitely a grump, Clarke thinks with faint amusement, which turns into irritation again when she doesn’t obey the order fast enough and he repeats it more gruffly: “Coat. Off.”

She very pointedly starts struggling out of her wet, heavy trenchcoat, but he only walks further into the room when he seems satisfied that she won’t go rogue and drench his hardwood floor with rainwater after all.

While he walks behind the counter and switches on the lights, Clarke hangs her coat over a chair, making sure that it drips only on the doormat and not on the beautiful, dark floor. She remains by the door for a moment to take in her surroundings. The place has only opened a few months before, and while she has walked by a few times when she missed the bus, so far she’s never been in here. Looking at the handful of bistro tables, the vibrantly coloured wooden chairs and plush armchairs scattered about, Clarke wishes she had discovered the place sooner. The furniture, though mismatched, looks inviting, and together with the dark floor, the old-fashioned orange wallpaper and the overstacked bookshelves on the walls, the whole room just oozes warmth and coziness. It feels less like a semi-public space and more like someone’s living-room – someone who’d offer cold, tired visitors hot drinks and listen to their sorrows while they curled up on a sofa…

Clarke throws a look at her dark-haired saviour, who is pottering about by the espresso machine, and wonders if he owns this place – and if so, if he chose the décor himself. He doesn’t  _look_  like someone who spends a lot of time on interior design, but she still thinks she can see traces of her surroundings mirrored in him – the dark brown of the floor in his wild curls and the freckles dusting his cheeks, the deep burgundy of the marble countertop and the espresso machine casing in his cable knit sweater. It may be a coincidence, of course, but the whole room looks,  _feels_ , like him. Which is odd, because as nice as he has been to her, warm and inviting were not the first words she’d use to describe him.

As if he’d felt her eyes on him, the stranger turns and looks at her, practically slamming a big steaming mug down on the counter.

“Jeez, you’re shivering. Sit down and drink this before you catch a cold.” She may be imagining it, of course, but Clarke is almost certain that his voice is getting a little softer. “How long have you been out there anyway?”

Crossing the room to climb on one of the barstools lined up before the counter, Clarke only shrugs and proceed to wrap her hands around the ceramic mug, reveling in the way her icy fingers are slowly starting to thaw.

“And why on earth were you attacking my trashcan?”

Clarke feels a blush creeping onto her cold cheeks, suddenly embarrassed by her childish temper tantrum. She doesn’t really want to get into it, but she figures after he let her in and gave her coffee, she at least owes him an explanation. Luckily, he doesn’t notice her embarrassment because he’s busy preparing a cup of espresso, presumably for himself, and Clarke takes a careful sip of her own café au lait, shivering in delight as the warm liquid runs down her throat. It’s good, she notices immediately, hot and sweet and smooth with what she guesses probably isn’t low-fat milk.

The guy finishes preparing his own espresso and, pulling a folding chair out from under the counter, sits down and looks at her expectantly. Clarke takes another big gulp of coffee before she starts with missing the bus and getting caught in the rain, and before she knows what’s happening, it’s all pouring out of her – her Mom, Finn, her exhaustion after having to pull a double shift for the second time this week because her resident hates her for refusing to laugh at his sexist jokes.

And coffee shop-guy, as she calls him in want of a name, listens. He listens to her rant for what feels like hours without interrupting once, without offering any unsolicited opinions, without trying to give advice she didn’t ask for. Because she doesn’t need advice – she knows she wants to be a trauma surgeon, she knows she’s over Finn, and she knows that in her line of work, she will always lose patients, and it will always be terrible, and she will always deal with it. But that doesn’t mean that those things can’t wear her down sometimes until she feels like she’ll collapse if she doesn’t find someone to help carry her burden.

Only when she’s done with her rant does it hit Clarke that she just poured her heart out to a virtual stranger, who didn’t exactly ask to be treated like her personal therapist. But before she can start apologizing for taking up so much of his time, he wordlessly gets up, takes away her half-drunk coffee and pulls a fresh mug from a shelf.

“What are you doing? I wasn’t finished with that.”

“You don’t need caffeine,” he explains, “you need something calming. I’m making you hot chocolate.”

She should feel patronized, not to mention outraged at having her precious coffee taken away, but Clarke can’t help it: she laughs out loud. Because whether he knows it or not, coffee shop-guy just correctly guessed the exact thing that never fails to make her feel better: Hot chocolate, made with actual chocolate which he slowly and carefully melts into the milk he’s warming up on a hot plate, and topped off with a generous helping of whipped cream.

Coffe shop-guy remains unfazed by her display of mirth, completely focused on preparing what Clarke is sure will be the best hot chocolate she has ever tasted. It is oddly entrancing to watch him, his big hands working in swift, well-practiced movements, his dark eyes lowered so that she can see long lashes and even more freckles than she had initially spotted. By the time he slides the finished drink towards her, Clarke’s mouth has gone dry, and not just in anticipation of the drink.

“Look, I don’t think there’s anything I can say to help you – it sounds like, all in all, you’ve got things under control, and it all just got a bit too much today.”

She nods, fully satisfied with this assessment and glad that he apparently doesn’t consider her a hopeless mess, although why she should care what he thinks of her is unclear at this point. She doesn’t even know his name, for fuck’s sake.

Although of course that can be remedied.

“What’s your name?”

He looks surprised for a moment before he replies: “Bellamy.”

_Bellamy_ , she repeats in her head, tempted to say it out loud just to know what the name would feel like rolling off her tongue.

“I’m Clarke.”

He holds his hand out across the counter for her to shake and she takes it.

“Pleased to meet you, Bellamy. And thank you, so much, for letting me warm up in here.”

“Well, I couldn’t just leave you out there. My poor trashcan would not have survived your vicious assault much longer.”

She flinches at the mention, embarrassed even though there’s a smile pulling at his full lips. “I am very, very sorry about that.” Her eyes fall on the fresh smudges on the counter, the steamed-up espresso machine, both of which had been immaculate before she came in. “And I’m sorry you’ll have to clean the espresso machine again because of me.”

“It’s no big deal. I own this place; if I want to, I can just open half an hour later tomorrow.”

“Won’t you lose business?”

He shrugs. “Maybe a little bit. But you can always come back in and order the most expensive drink on the menu to make up for it.”

Clarke chuckles. “I will. You’re very good to have around in a crisis.”

A raised eyebrow tells her he doesn’t quite believe her. “I didn’t even give you any advice.”

“Precisely. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who just listens? You have a gift.”

He nods, and it may just be the warm orange light in here but Clarke could swear he’s blushing a little bit at the compliment. And then she realizes that she wishes he was, and suddenly it’s her turn to blush. Trying to avoid his eyes, which are now fixed on her with the same intensity she observed before when he made her drink, Clarke quickly lifts her mug and downs the rest of her hot chocolate. When she sets it down again and licks the last drops of the sweet concoction off her lip, he’s still looking at her, causing a warm glow to spread out from her center that she suspects has very little to do with hot chocolate.

She clears her throat, uncertain what to think but fairly sure that she should not add yet another layer of emotions to her already frayed nerves, and clambers off the barstool.

“I really should get going if I don’t want to miss the last train.”

“Do you want me to walk you the rest of the way to the station? It’s pretty dark already.”

That is an understatement – it’s actually pitch black outside, and a part of her really, really wants to say yes to his chivalrous offer. But it may be best to wait until she at least had a decent night’s sleep until she spends any more time alone with her intriguing new acquaintance. She’d like to have at least some semblance of control over the direction her thoughts are taking around him.

“Thanks, but I’m good. It’s only a few minutes from here. And you still have to clean up again because of me.”

With that, she walks to the door and starts pulling on her coat, struggling a little because it is still fairly damp, and suddenly he’s behind her and holding the coat up for her to slip into. When his fingertips brush her skin at the back of her neck, she shivers at the contact and he stills for a moment before quickly pulling back.

It may just be the fact that the light is a little dimmer where they’re standing now, but when Clarke turns back to him, she could swear his eyes look darker. It throws her so much that she stays rooted to the spot, so close before him that she can feel his body heat and smell the residual scent of coffee and chocolate coming off him.

“Didn’t you have a train to catch?” His voice would be jarring in the way it tears her out of her thoughts if it wasn’t deep and rich like the chocolate she just had. It is this last uncharacteristically poetic metaphor that finally convinces Clarke that she needs to leave, and fast.

“Yes.” And boy does she ever want to get away from him – or at the very least, that’s what she should want. And yet, her hand finds the door handle but doesn’t actually open the door, and she’s still looking at him, and he’s still looking back. “Thank you, for everything. You really saved my day.”

He smiles then, the first smile she’s seen from him that isn’t reserved or a little mocking, and Clarke is suddenly glad to be holding on to the door handle. If his eyes remind her of the dark, textured wood dominating the place, his smile is like the sunny wallpaper, so bright she swears she can actually feel the room light up around him.

And before she knows what she’s doing, Clarke gets up on her tiptoes, leans towards him, and kisses him on the cheek, just a quick peck before she draws back and practically bolts out the door.

She’s already on the sidewalk when she hears him mutter “Anytime.”

Clarke throws one last look back at him, silhouetted in the golden light streaming out from the shop behind him, and smiles before she pulls up the collar of her coat and starts walking down the dark, empty street. Even though the rain has stopped the air is still cold and damp, but the pleasant warmth of Bellamy’s excellent hot chocolate and even more excellent company stays with her the entire way home.  

***

 

When Clarke walks by the coffee shop the next evening on her way to the night shift she’s pulling today, she peers in through the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Bellamy, but there’s a young woman behind the counter and he’s nowhere in sight. And maybe that’s for the best – maybe he would have been seriously creeped out if she started stalking him in his shop now? Maybe he was just being nice last night, and has no intention of being drawn into any more of her emotional drama.

Just as she’s about to walk on, her eyes fall on the sign standing on the sidewalk before the window. It starts with the words  _“Is everything ok?”_ , and then two arrows lead down to form a little diagram, allowing the reader to choose  _“yes”_  or  _“no”_. Of course, either choice just leads to the same conclusion:  _“Come in and have a coffee!”_

Clarke snorts. She wonders if Bellamy came up with this himself, and her question is answered when she crouches down to read the tiny script at the bottom of the sign:

“ _That includes you, Clarke. No more kicking the trashcan.”_

Clarke laughs, loud enough to startle the woman behind the counter inside, who looks at her so curiously that she quickly keeps walking. But that evening, Clarke starts her shift with a smile on her face, and the next morning, she ends it with a coffee with Bellamy.

 

_‘Cause when the day’s over_

_I’ve got your shoulder_

_To help me carry the weight pulling under_

_Didn’t you wonder how everybody gets through the day_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics and inspiration from the song "Those days" by Lucy Schwartz.


End file.
